Blue Suit
by KToon
Summary: The guards shock the collar on his neck and he falls, submissive. They take him somewhere and drug him with something and say the name of someone he used to be. He's ashamed he's given in so easily. But, fighting when he first got here was so excruciatingly unforgiving that he'd learned not to try by the first two days. (Now Complete)
1. Chapter 1

_This wasn't intended to be multi-chapter, but, well, plans change. Probably going to be a 3 or 4 chapter one, so not too terribly long._

 _This was a request by_ _Astronema2345_ _who wanted me to, "...do a story where Sam is kidnapped again by the Men of Letters."_

 _Heck yes! I had fun with this first chapter, which brings me into this:_

 _Warnings: Very graphic imagery and depictions of violence (not for an extensive amount of time)._

 _I'm hoping to get the Winchesters in a pretty package for Christmas...but nothing yet._

 _Reviews are appreciated if you have the time_ _._

Enjoy.

* * *

The pain is all the same.

Well, he can't exactly say that. Sometimes the pain is burning, fiery and intense, clawing away at his skin in various places that he no longer knows the difference between. Other times it's stabbing; a piercing blade— _literally_ —in his outer later that rips away bit by bit, piece by piece. A lot of the time, it's a drug-induced haze that brings forth many nightmares and horrors deeply concealed in the barriers of his mind, hidden behind the shutters and refusing to be let out. Most of the time, it's all of the above.

He lays on the sodden mattress in his cage, the shackles that scald his wrists and ankles not letting him go far even if he wanted to. He should've known this was going to happen at some point. The British weren't going to just set him free, especially not with his past.

He's done too much shit that never deserved to be forgiven for at this point he's refused to allow himself any form of miniature hope that seemed to formulate. To be honest, it was only righteous.

This is his living hell. Sam's experienced damnation at its finest when he was nothing but a soul with the body long forgotten, but _then_ he could be ripped apart, preserved long enough to see his intestines shoved into his own mouth, and then brought back to life with a gasp. However, this is so much more different. He has to worry about thirst, malnutrition, overheating. Because it's hot— _so_ much different from the Cage.

Sometimes he's put in a straight jacket. He's not sure why, actually. Perhaps he knows what they're planning. He's seen it, through the visions that had stopped so long ago that he barely even acknowledged that they were a thing. Not that he wanted to, at least. Some of them don't come true, though, and he's confused on what he's seeing.

Maybe he's just hallucinating and this whole thing is in his mind.

The rooms are white when he's not in his prison. The guards shock the collar on his neck and he falls, submissive. They take him somewhere and drug him with something and say the name of someone he used to be. He's ashamed he's given in so easily. But fighting when he first got here was so excruciatingly unforgiving that he'd learned not to try by the first two days.

He supposes he's been here somewhat around a month now. That's what the talleys on the floor tell him that he makes with a small stone he found lying near the iron bars. They're doing something to him, and he doesn't know what.

Every other day he's brought into a different room. A grey one. One that's not a matte, pearlescent white that forces his eye sockets shut in seeking of mercy. His cuffs are chained to a normal, blue chair in front of a normal, blue table in front of a normal, blue-suited man. The man asks him the same questions everyday in the same order. Sam had it memorized the first day.

 _What's your name?_

 _What's your favorite color?_

 _Who's your brother?_

 _What car do you drive?_

 _What's your pet angel's name?_

 _Who are you?_

His responses started with something along the lines of, "Fuck you."

The man only coyly smiled, lustful for fear, and Sam felt an unsettling panic reside in his chest. Somewhere along the line he stopped answering the questions with snarky comebacks altogether, instead opting for silence. At this the man got angry, and Sam learned very fast you didn't want to make the man angry. Ketch, they called him. He knew his name, because it had been marked onto his chest with a blade so sharp it made an X-Acto knife look like a kitten's toy.

One day he answered truthfully. The next day that got him tied to a pole and whipped twenty.

He never knew this side of the British Men of Letters. They were philosophers, not torturers and scientists. Oh, yes, the science part of this. He never knew his demon blood could be activated by six screws into his brain. Maybe that's where the straight jacket came into play.

The next time he answered the questions he was finally told the correct answers.

"What's your name?" Ketch asked, eyeing Sam studiously, his jaw clenching and unclenching in a symphony.

"Does it matter?"

"No. Exactly. You have no name anymore. No inhuman thing should have a title to abide by."

When the final question came and he said without even blinking, "Nobody," he received an extra ration of bread that night. He learned to answer the questions in that manner.

The thing about this place is that they're careful. Way too careful to be a place in Britain, desolate and empty, with no threats to their studies. There's 3 guards at the main door, one on each and every other, with around 16 near the front one. Sam's had time to discover about half of their names. He figured out their quantity numbers on his first and last escape attempt.

They don't underestimate him. They know he has a brother out there, scrounging the living Earth for his younger sibling that was taken from him so quickly and quietly, with nothing to compensate for evidence. Despite there being no clues, no traces, no leads, they know not to think they're safe. They also don't underestimate Sam's strength. Henceforth, he's never left unbound. Even when he's being transported on the stretcher to the main building where's he drugged and experimented on, they leave the heavy metal on.

Sam's dislocated thumb still aches from where he tried to break free. Funny thing is, to spite him, they took the other one and snapped the joint back, too. So now he has two dislocated thumbs and no place to go.

He made a lot of mistakes when he first got here, now that he thinks about it.

Sometimes he wonders about Dean. Dreams about him, even. He thinks of that classic rock during late-night drives in the rain. He thinks of the cheeseburgers he complained so dearly about the extra onions with. What he would give now for a cheeseburger with extra onions he doesn't even know.

He wonders what happened to Mick. Mick was nice. He snuck a lot of rations in late at night, and gave him a private access key to initiate his first escape attempt. He hasn't seen Mick since. Sam knows he's dead.

The familiar sound of echoing footsteps approach outside of his cage. He doesn't even make a move to look, staring at the musty ceiling in vain. The guards shock him anyway just for pleasure, undoing his chains and looping them onto their belts. They're forcing him to walk this time, and Sam's not sure he can.

But he makes his limbs move, and limps off to where he knows he's supposed to go to. With the guards' help, of course.

Blue chair, blue table, blue-suited man.

"What's your name?"

Sam stares unseeingly.

"I have no name."

 _tbc_


	2. Chapter 2

_I was originally going to have this in two different chapters, but that didn't exactly work out. It was too short, and I did this in school, so I didn't have much time._

 _This is un-betaed, so any and all mistakes are mine. Disclaimers see first chapter._

 _This went a completely different way...sheesh... At the end, I am using an idea from the TV show called Bitten. That credits to them. Loved it._

 _I appreciate the reviews. As to the anonymous person who commented about this being like a book called 1948 by George Orwell, I've never heard of it! But I definitely will check it out. Thanks for letting me know._

 _Enjoy!_

* * *

Dean paces. He finds himself pacing a lot.

"Nothing on finding Mick?" he asks, a tinge of desperation in his voice making him sound afraid and lethal at the same time. Not many people can accomplish that, but Dean Winchester has perfected it over the years, so he's not too concerned. Other people should be, though.

"Nothing," Cas affirms, and Dean has to restrain himself from punching his friend in the nose.

"And Sam hasn't even prayed to you? Not once?" Cas doesn't answer, and Dean narrows his eyes accusingly. "Cas?"

The angel forces his gaze to his hands, eyes cast shallow and guilt-ridden. "He prays to me every moment of the day. I just can't find him because of the warding on his ribs. You know that."

This time, Dean can't help but swipe his arm across the desk and fold his hands over his head to calm himself. He knows Sam can hold his own—better than anyone, in fact—but it's been an entire month. An entire _month._ Dean hasn't felt this hopeless since he felt his brother's life leaving his body and watching it drain from his eyes a decade ago in Cold Oak.

"So he's still alive then."

"I told you that."

"Well, then what does he pray about, Castiel?" Dean says vehemently, and he can't quite manage to contain the anger.

"You, mostly. You don't want to know the rest."

Dean bites his lip. His brother was out there, calling for him eminently all the time, and Dean couldn't even hear. Let alone respond. It was tearing him apart, having nothing to go on, and simply waiting for a breakthrough. Patience was a virtue he did not have.

"He's my brother, Cas," he said finally. " Whether I want to or not, I have to know."

Dean thinks about his mother, searching endlessly for patterns not unlike himself. She'd been a wreck, after having just made up with her children for so many things, only to have them both yanked away so abruptly. Sam physically, Dean...well, emotionally.

Cas cocks his head, contemplating. "Don't let this greatly affect you. Sam needs you, now more than ever."

Before Dean can ask the many questions that just formed, two fingers are on his head and a blinding pain is in his temples. His vision tilts and whites out, and he feels his feet stumble. _There's an echo of someone screaming, a figure moving in the extensive amount of bright, white color. A table, he sees, with a person tied down. Sam._

 _The scene suddenly lurches, Dean with it, and he's now somewhere dark. Cage bars, iron, rusted. A small enclosure no more than 4 feet tall, a dirty cot in the corner. Calloused hands wrap around the metal, pleading. A collar on his next._ _A fucking collar._

Dean gasps and resurfaces, searching for oxygen. Sam is being treated like an animal.

"I thought you said he was only praying? That you couldn't find him?" he breathes.

"That's what's interesting. I'm not reaching out to him. He's reaching out to me—sending _me_ these images."

Dean falls silent, still catching his breath. "So...what? His powers?"

Cas nods. "That's the only thing I can think of."

At this, Dean closes his eyes and sucks in a heavy breath, fists tightening. "We're getting him back," Dean vows. "Now." It comes out as a snarl, and Cas flinches.

"Those sons of bitches think they own my brother. I'm going to show them just how wrong they are."

It's quiet for a moment, and Cas fiddles with his coat. Dean knows he wants to say something, knows _he_ should walk away and not let it get to him, but he needs to understand what the celestial being is thinking.

"What, Cas?" he asks alas. "Please, buddy."

The angel's face falls, and he stares at the floor. "But don't they?" he says softly, and Dean's eyebrows pinch in confusion. "Don't they own your brother?" he clarifies.

Dean growls. Actually growls. "What in the actual fuck, Cas?"

"I'm just trying to say, you can't just waltz in there and take him back. They've made it strikingly clear that Sam belongs to them."

The elder Winchester shoves his friend, fury emanating from his skin in obnoxious waves. "You speak of him like he's property!" he nearly yells. Cas tries to recover, but Dean cuts him off. "Why do you talk like he's just this...this _thing_ to be pawned and traded between ownership with? He's my brother. And I thought he was _your_ friend!"

"Dean, you know that's not what I meant. It's just—"

"What, huh? He's a valuable war piece and nothing more?"

"No," Cas denies. "He's an army of one with the strength of a thousand."

Dean shuts up mid-interjection, mouth frozen in a halted 'o'. Cas continues. "Last time they wanted him to tell them the network of American hunters. Once he realized he wouldn't do that...well...why ask them to cooperate when they can take everything by force?"

It's a valid point and Dean knows it. "And...his powers?"

Cas shakes his head. "I don't know. But from what I've seen, they're trying to break him."

That night, Dean weeps.

* * *

Contrary to what the British think, they haven't broken Sam Winchester. Not yet, at least. He can still think. He can still move of his own, free volition, no matter how painful it is. But he's right back to where he was seven years ago—beaten into submission for a cause much bigger than him.

That's why, when he's in the blue room, facing Ketch, and the questions have come and gone, he displays one act of independency that runs everything. He didn't mean for it to happen.

"You're going to get Dean here," he said, and Sam sharply looked up. He _looked up._ Rule #6: No eye contact with your owner. Ketch's lip curled inward at that. "You're going to get him here, let us take him, then return to your cage. Got it?"

Sam blinked. Then, he laughed, and oh had he screwed up now. "No, he says, and then says it again when the word feels so good on his tongue. "No." Rule #3: Absolutely no talking.

"Man," Sam huffs, the chuckles subsiding. "I thought you were stupid before, but this is a whole new level of—" he gets punched in the face when he says that, stopping him short. He spits the blood out, and finishes, "Idiocy."

Ketch smiles, and Sam wonders why he's not being punished yet. "Shame." Ketch sighs. "I thought we had actually made progress."

Sam smirks. "We had, until you brought my brother into this. I could last centuries, now."

Ketch resumed like he hadn't been interrupted. "But I don't recall asking you."

With that, two guards yank him up, and he's dragged off to a room he's never been to in the 43 days he's been here. It's damp, lit up solely by lanterns and candles that provide an orange luminescence. It's ornately decorated, furniture carefully placed in the corners to make it decorative.

Expensive paintings dangle from the walls, and the floor is made of a velvet material. In the center is a large sigil Sam doesn't recognize, donned with white paint on the carpet and a black dust surrounding the outside. They shock Sam's collar, and he's forced to kneel in the center of it, still attempting to regulate his breathing from the electric current.

Two keenly dressed woman walk up to him, and one pets his head. Like he's a _dog._ Nobody speaks, but Ketch comes to stand in front of him. He smiles in faux melancholy. "Again, I didn't want it to come to this."

With that, Sam recognizes an incantation being chanted in Latin, and he tries his best to translate as they speak, but the words move by too fast. "Chain...keep...withhold...thy...mind...thou...ridden…" He's too confused to even try anymore.

It ends and everything turns black, the lights being extinguished instantaneously.

The smoke he didn't realize was there clears, and Sam feels empty inside. He holds onto those few emotions of anger and fear he still has, though, like it were a lifeline.

But then Ketch speaks.

"Sam."

He looks up unwillingly.

"I am the lock."

And suddenly, Sam finds himself answering, "I am the key," and those precious emotions fizzle out into...nothing.

Rule #1: No resisting.

 _tbc_


	3. Chapter 3

_Merry Christmas everyone! Hope you've had an amazing day!_

 _Here's another chapter for you. Only about another three or four with this one._

 _Reviews are amazing gifts._

 _Enjoy~_

* * *

It's around two months when Dean finally finds a lead, and it comes from the most unexpected of places. And, although it's been _two fucking months_ and Dean is nowhere near content with that, he's probably the most grateful person on the planet right then.

The bunker has been quiet, the stench of oldened whiskey occupying the air in a heavy, lingering odor. Dean didn't know how much life Sam brought to the place when he was here, but now, he finds himself drowning in his own mind and the silence is too unbearable on his shoulders. His mother tries to comfort him a lot of the time, bringing small gifts of blankets and food and words of promise. He's quick to dust those off though, because only hell knows if Sam's getting _any_ of those three amenities right now. It's nauseating to think about.

The last time any of them had disappeared off the plane of existence was the time where Dean wound up fighting for his life every second of every day. What scares him the most is when Cas says that Sam is now...gone. Not as in dead gone—Dean doesn't think he could handle that—but as in no more praying, no more images, no more pleading.

So, when someone comes by their doorstep and slips a piece of paper with an address and a note, he nearly falls to his knees in relief. He recognizes the handwriting and he recognizes the slang, and knows he will forever be in debt to this person, no matter how much in pains him.

 _You're losing your mind, Dean. I can't have that. We need to find Lucifer, dumbass, not wallow over people who are gone. So, go fetch Moose, be a mother-hen, and let's get back on track._

 _~C_

In fact, he can't really remember much of the time after in which he had read those sacred words. At that point, he was relentlessly thanking God and not even caring that He wasn't listening, because whatever Chuck was doing, none of it concerned Earth. Or Sam, who has been in the vicious clutches of the British these entire eight weeks.

Posture strong and dominant for the first time in a long while, Dean walks into the common room of the bunker with a hopeful smile on his face. It doesn't necessarily reach his eyes, but it's enough for now, and most _definitely_ enough for his family to recognize that something has happened. Something good.

His mother stands up from the seat she has been occupying, and blinks at him expectantly. Cas stares over her shoulder when Dean hands her the note and doesn't say a word.

When her eyes have finished tracking she laughs in a hysteric relief, Cas murmuring bits and pieces of thanks underneath his breath to the demon who had proposed a way for them to get back their beloved family member. The atmosphere is auspicious.

"I can get a few hunter friends of mine to help. Those who have a bone to pick with the British as well. We can't go in there with the three of us; unfortunately, they've got way too many resources, but with a few numbers I think we may have a chance," his mother tells him.

Dean nods apprehensively, hesitant about that. He needs his brother now, and he's not sure how much longer he can wait. Mary reads his mind though, saying, "I'll get them here as soon as I can. Don't go and do anything stupid."

Of course, Dean assures her and casts her an understanding look, but when she's gone through the door leading to the bedrooms, he grabs Cas, shrugs on his coat, and devilishly grins. "C'mon." He grabs his friend's shoulder, drags him to the stairwell, and says, "Let's go get my brother back."

The door clangs shut loudly.

* * *

Sam knows something is wrong but he's not sure what is. His mind is fuzzy and things are a lot less clear than they used to be, but he feels...fine. Just _fine._

The man says he needs to stay quiet. Makes him watch the girl that's organizing things in the trunk of her car, singing a song while shaking her head to the beat. She's putting various guns and knives in seperate storage units, ensuring everything is in order. Sam looks at the man.

He cocks his head in question, then looks down at the sharpened blade he holds in his hand. "Are we…?" he trails off, letting the question ask itself. _Are we supposed to be doing this? Are we supposed to be killing her?_

For a brief second he feels heedful, wonder encasing his mind and morals coming back to him swiftly. Ketch looks alarmed, before he suddenly commands, "Sam."

He tries his absolute best not to look, to avoid eye-contact and remain hold of this moment of clarity, but it's nearly impossible. His eyes meet Ketch's icy glare, and he shakes his head in submission, however much it pains him.

"I am the lock."

Sam feels his mouth moving without his consent. "I am the key." Suddenly, all those previous inquiries are gone, and he moves toward the girl without a second thought, knowing exactly what he needs to do.

* * *

Sam subconsciously notes that she is very pretty. Not that it matters, though. There's an itch in his mind, telling him things he should be doing, and he probably isn't pleasing Ketch too much by standing there like a dumbass. He walks toward her determinedly, chin up and faux-smile in place.

She's startled when she turns to see him there, reaching for her gun in a motion that is practiced many times over. Surprise morphs into confusion, though, when she lowers her firearm and says softly, "Sam? Sam Winchester?"

He didn't realize he was so popular. "Yeah. How are you, Aleshia?" He recites the name off the slip of paper Ketch gave him.

She smiles slightly. "I'm good. Just finished up helping some people with a haunting. How about you? Where have you been?"

Something tells him to stop sweet-talking and get on with his task. He obliges. "It doesn't matter, honestly. A few places here, a few places there. Lots of moving. Now, tell me, have you ever heard of the British Men of Letters?"

A scowl comes across her features, and she bites her lip. She brings her voice to a whisper. "Are you working with them?" she asks.

The lie comes easily. "No! No, definitely not." To him, he thinks he sells it well. "I was just coming here to make sure you weren't, neither."

"Working with them?" She laughed. "After what they did to you in that basement a bit ago? Yeah, guess what. Every hunter knows about that. Nobody ain't going to join them unless they're stupid enough."

A sense of revelation washes upon him, and he sighs. This girl wasn't budging at all, and he knows that she won't. It was a strange feeling. He has no will of thought, no control over his actions. It's just a constant persona of serenity— _of compliance_. The old him would've told Aleshia to run and never look back. Now, he's being instructed things and he's fine with that. It feels good to follow for once, instead of bearing the weight of everybody's decisions.

He unsheathes the knife silently. "Thanks," he says, and moves to shake her hand. "I appreciate it."

Aleshia shrugs. "It's whatever. Good luck out there."

He smiles. Then, as she turns away and goes back to her sorting, he slips the blade behind her neck and pulls. Her chokes are quiet, gurgling on her own blood and unable to breathe. Sam frowns. This isn't right. _Something—_

Ketch stands beside him, returning from his cover.

"I am the lock."

He pauses, looking at the body.

"And I am the key."

 _tbc_


	4. Chapter 4

_Here's the final chapter! I hope it's all right. Sorry it took so long to get out, but I'm having a really big motivational spurt for writing lately as you can probably see, and I'm going back and finishing my work in progresses. This is including Volition, Saccharine Disposition, and a sequel to Salvation._

 _Reviews make me very happy, and I appreciate everybody insofar who has commented on this work._

 _Much love. Enjoy!_

* * *

It's a large warehouse, Dean thinks to himself. Large enough for many forces to be there, and an extensive amount of backup. It'll be tough, but it won't be impossible.

He shoulders the bag of weapons, dangling it across his back, taking a hesitant step forward. Cas comes to a stand beside him, a silent and unreadable expression on his face. The frayed ends of his trench coat sway in the night breeze, eyes solid and determined.

"You sure this is going to work?" the angel questions, and Dean nods fervently. The hunter's lips curl into a dangerous smile, intentions absolute in his toned features. He pulls out one of the many bundles of explosives from the duffle, showing them off loud and proud, then places it back. They had taken a pit-stop on the way here to a friend's house whom had hooked them up with a few packs of C4s. Heavy duty, but not enough to which it would draw the attention of law enforcement. Besides, the warehouse was at a desolate location in the bumfuck plains of Indiana, and nobody for miles would hear what was going to take place.

The sun is just setting over the horizon, disappearing and leaving abstract hues of orange and yellow. It's beautiful, and Dean tells himself that his brother will be here to witness it with him in no more than an hour.

Concurrently, Dean and Cas make their way around to the backside, sheltering behind some loose foliage. There's two guards at the back door, both holding military-grade assault rifles, and Dean shakes his head. Step one of the process. He removes the sniper from the duffel, then sets it up on the stand. It's the same one he used when they were hunting the skinwalkers when Sam was soulless.

He then equips the zoomed scope, and crouches into a prone position. Cas looks on interestedly.

Holding his breath, he takes aim, the intersecting dot landing right on the first guard's forehead. There's no remorse as he pulls the trigger.

The second guard jumps high into the air as the suppressed shot kills his buddy, and before he even has the chance to look around and scan for the threat, his body, too, is on the floor. Red pours from the holes their heads, and Dean simply puts the gun back in his bag. He doesn't spare a glance at Cas, instead determinedly making his way to the door. Emotions can be saved for later. Right now, he just wants his brother.

It's crazily bolted, with dense, iron chains and locks intertwining the entrance. Dean had figured it would be as such. Cas helps him attach the explosives to the wall, and once they think they've got it adorned properly, they back up a solid forty feet with the detonator in Dean's fist.

"Ready?" Dean asks as he checks his pistol, making sure the clip is loaded and he has extra rounds in his jacket. He can't afford to bring the whole bag inside—too much deadweight. His Beretta is his weapon of choice, even over the submachine gun he has back at the bunker.

"As I'll ever be," Cas replies, and with that Dean slams his thumb down.

The effect is instantaneous. Immediately, the entire wall is gone, and he can already see the casualties of the guards who wrongfully chose to stand too close to the door on the inside. Dean starts off at a sprint, stepping over debris and rubble. He's met with two more armed men rounding a corner, and he expertly lands two shots between both pairs of eyes.

The British Men of Letters took something from him. Now, he is here to take it back, and nobody would stand in his way. Morales are long past something he cares about, now.

In tandem, Cas and Dean make their way through the dust-infiltrated hallways. At some point the alarms had been set off, and a red glow is cast amongst the white floors and walls. While Cas watches his back, Dean initiates step two of his plan. Removing the rest of the C4 from the belted jacket he's wearing, he sets it up on the next door. Another three men had come to try and stop them, but Cas had literally eaten the bullets and used the rest of his immolated grace to smite them. Taking a few hesitant steps back, he explodes the next corridor, and moves in over the four dead bodies that were within the explosive range on the opposing side.

Finally, he comes to an open room. It's filled with an extensive amount of blue—the walls, the furniture, the carpet. Sitting at a blue desk, he sees the person who he'd been itching to kill since they'd stole his life away.

"Ketch," Dean snarls, aiming his gun level to the other man's head.

To Ketch's credit, he doesn't flinch, merely keeps a straight face with a hint of a smile at the corner of his lips. He displays his hands, and in one is a very clear stick button. Then, he shifts his chair, and the person behind him makes Dean audibly gasp.

"Sam?" he whispers, and the kid he's known his entire life doesn't even make a move to look at him. He's sitting on a plush navy couch, nonchalantly leaning back, eyes not even tracking Dean's movement. The wretched collar is still around his neck, and Dean growls at the sight of it.

"In my hand," Ketch informs him, "is the thing that can kill your brother in just one second. It can deliver and electric current strong enough to shock his brain, and oops, you've killed your precious kid." He shrugs. "Your choice. Drop the gun. Shoot me, and as I die my finger presses down."

Dean doesn't see a choice. Down his firearm goes, landing harshly on the floor.

"Good. Now, Sam. I am the lock."

"I am the key," comes a monotone response, and Dean scrunches his eyebrows.

"Sam?"

"Sam is long gone," Ketch narrates.

With that, Dean's little brother stands up and begins advancing on him. That's when he spots the knife, and with a deft movement, he dodges the oncoming attack.

"Sam!"

He sees a flicker in Sam's hazel eyes, but nothing more than a small spark. It ignites hope in him, though, and he tackles Sam to the ground. The kid squirms underneath him, and Dean bites his own lip. He hates doing so, but he flips Sam around so that he's onto his stomach, and brings his sibling's wrists together.

"Cas, a little help here?"

The angel helps him pin Sam down, and suddenly, the body underneath him goes lax. Dean's breath catches in his throat. "Sammy?"

Before he knows it, he's flying through the air, back colliding with the plaster wall. The wind is knocked out of him, and he collapses to the floor, panting. He sees Cas not too far away in a similar predicament.

Sam is now on his feet, shaking out his arms from where Dean had bent them. While Dean is still currently curled into himself, Sam takes the opportunity to recover his knife, and lean over him. Out of his peripherals, Dean sees Sam's hand twist, and air is abruptly far too hard to get than it should be. He's being choked. By what he isn't sure, as nothing physical is around his neck, but he's quickly losing breath and his eyes are shutting closed not of their own volition.

The gunshot startles him. His eyelids jolt open, and he frantically looks around. From where he and Cas had originally entered, he sees his mother with around five other hunters standing behind her. He looks over to Ketch, seeing the penetrating bullet in his head, and nods. Sam collapses back onto his ass, blinking profusely. He looks around.

His gaze settles on his brother, and he whispers, "Dean?"

"I'm here, Sammy. I'm here"

* * *

Dean learns a lot about Sam's time in captivity, and none of it is good. It makes him want to go back, resurrect Ketch, rip every damn piece of skin off his body, and kill him again. That would satisfy him.

Maybe.

Sam was originally taken from where he was gathering food from the store, and shoved into the back of some vehicle, drugged. He was blindfolded and gagged, unable to see. Dean knows how terrible that is—to have your two most important senses stripped away. As a hunter, sight is one of the most paramount of traits. Without it, you're helpless.

For the first week they kept him only in the cage, collared and chained down. The abrasions from the cuffs are still visible on Sam's wrists even now. They rarely fed him, and forced him to drink from a dog bowl if he didn't want to get dehydrated. Sam had put aside his dignity for his desire to live.

Little did he realize, that was just their first way of breaking him.

They made him answer absurd questions, manipulating his mind. By the second week, they were shocking him and taking him to the labs. His powers were deeply studied, according to Sam, and after a very painful process, a few of them were reactivated. He hadn't gone into detail about said process. Dean didn't ask him.

Sam's powers had been killing Dean back at the warehouse, he realizes. It was disgusting to think about, but none of it was directed toward his brother. He was disgusted by the British.

Based on Sam's recount of events, they'd cast some sort of voodoo spell on him that controlled him when he wouldn't stop resisting. It had to keep being applied, however, and sometimes Ketch would forget, giving Sam a small amount of freedom. That was soon forcefully taken away, though.

They wanted him to kill all the hunters that didn't join their army, and recruit those who did. It took Dean especially long to convince Sam that their blood wasn't on his hands, and in the end, he doesn't even think he got fully through Sam's thick head. No hunters in the community truly blame him, and if they did, Dean was quick to take care of it.

Cas had healed most of his brother's injuries, but a few reminders still remained—like the remnants of the manacles. Dean never let his gaze drop to those.

Sam was quiet most of the time. He worked with his powers occasionally, controlling a few things at a time, but quickly abandoned the idea of exploring them more and locked them back down in a fortress in his mind. He may have them, but exploiting them was something Sam wasn't going to do, Dean knew. He was just happy Sam had made his own choice about that. They were there, but dormant.

The only time Sam had talked about his captivity was when Dean had prodded him the day they'd got him back for all the details. Still in shock, Sam had listed the following off. But, now he is closed down, and nothing Dean does makes him open up. It's a shut and locked chapter of their lives, forgotten.

After another month of recovery, Dean finally takes them on a hunt. Sam sees to enjoy it, and is slowly returning to his normal self. He knows those demons will always haunt him, but the most he can do is help Sam through the tough times.

They've got work to do, anyway.

Track down Lucifer, Kelly Kline, and everybody else on this godforsaken planet it seems like.

"Dean?" Sam asks him one night as they're both nursing a bottle of Jack in the bunker's common room.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

Dean doesn't even need to ask what he's talking about.

"Don't you thank me. I should've found you sooner."

"Sooner or later, you still found me. And just...thank you."

Dean grins a small, humorless smile.

"No problem, Sammy."

He doesn't even feel a sliver of guilt about the 26 total men and women he killed in the attack, both before and after he rescued Sam.

He never will.

The blue room is now red, and red is a color Dean likes. Especially when people take the most important thing in his life away.

Yeah, he thinks.

Red suits him.

fin


End file.
